


Skies Without Sun

by the_rck



Category: 3rd Century BCE RPF, Ancient History RPF, Historical RPF, Punic Wars RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blindness, First Meetings, Gen, Head Injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-08
Updated: 2018-01-08
Packaged: 2019-03-02 08:38:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13314528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_rck/pseuds/the_rck
Summary: Waking up unable to see wasn't likely to be the worst part of Scipio's day.





	Skies Without Sun

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sevenofspade](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sevenofspade/gifts).



> Mention of possible vomiting.
> 
> This wanted to get really big, so the ending is a little abrupt. I did a bit of poking around online and found a site that talked about something Scipio did right after Cannae. My assumption is that, historically speaking, he went in with backup, but the description makes it sound as if he went in single-handed and forced some would be deserters to swear that they would never desert. My reaction was, “Charging in alone would not end well.” Then I thought about what I could do with that.
> 
> I did fairly minimal medical research for this. That bothers me less than the potential for anachronisms. My period knowledge has more holes than a lace shawl, so I’d usually do a lot more fact checking. I hope it pleases anyway.
> 
> Thanks to Prinzenhasserin for brainstorming help.
> 
> Title from Kim Unsong's "God's Land."

Scipio opened his eyes and saw nothing. The back of his head hurt, throbbing with his pulse, and his mouth tasted foul. Scipio was pretty sure the former mattered more than the latter and supposed he should be grateful not to be dead. Unconsciousness on the battlefield tended to lead to that. Maybe that was about to happen?

But he couldn’t hear anything that sounded like battle. Nearby, the sounds of someone-- probably more than one person-- moving around. Farther away, he heard things that made him think he was somewhere with a lot of people, a city or a military camp most likely.

He groped sideways with his right hand and found the edge of pallet of some sort. It crinkled as if it was stuffed with straw. He felt grass only a short way down, so the pad had to be on the ground. He wondered if he was in a tent or somewhere in the open.

“I really wouldn’t,” a man’s voice said in accented Latin. “The boys hit you pretty hard and probably more than once.”

Scipio heard movement but couldn’t guess what was happening. The accent didn’t bode well. The Roman army didn’t use Carthaginian slaves; their loyalty was even more dubious than that of most slaves.

“There. If you must sit up--” The voice was much closer now. “--I’ve at least got something to catch the vomit.”

“Why can’t I see?” Scipio doubted it was dark and doubted he was blindfolded, so he held onto the idea that, if he remained calm, he could endure like a proper Roman.

“You can’t?” The other man sounded surprised. “They must have hit you damned hard.”

 _They--? Oh._ Scipio swallowed hard against nausea that had nothing to do his aching skull. _Well, actually--_ He laughed and let the bitterness of his memories show. “So the traitors succeeded in defecting. But why bring me? I’m no great prize.”

“I believe they were under the impression that, if you died here, no one back home would cry ‘murder!’ at them.”

Which made a depressing amount of sense. 

“Also… You’re young enough yet that it’s hard to know what sort of prize you are. I don’t think they thought about that, but I did.”

“I don’t intend to die.” He wouldn’t give those traitorous bastards the satisfaction. In the long run, he knew, the choice wasn’t going to be in his hands, and he might prefer death to some other options.

Something of that must have shown in his face because the other man said, “If I intended to kill you, you’d never have awakened. I don’t need to torture boys to build my reputation for ruthlessness. What exactly to do with you is… a dilemma. I’m sure the fact that your blindness buys time is small comfort.”

Rather than answer, Scipio started pushing himself up from where he lay. That did worsen the nausea, but he didn’t embarrass himself by vomiting in front of his captor. He was starting to suspect who the other man might be but really hoped he was mistaken. Not asking was, he hoped, an excusable act of cowardice.

Once Scipio was sitting, he heard something being set on the ground. A hand touched his and tugged it forward and to one side until his fingers touched hardened clay.

“In case you do need that later.” The other hand released his.

Scipio frowned. He wanted to say that courtesy and kindness wouldn’t win him over, but his current level of helplessness made him more vulnerable.

And he really didn’t want to die, not while doing something honorless, stupid, and futile.

“It might help to know,” the other man said, “that there are other people in the tent with us. Any one of them would object to you bashing my head in with the basin while my back is turned.”

Scipio hadn’t quite gotten to the idea of that being possible, but that was mostly because he was pretty sure he wouldn’t be able to stand yet. But the likelihood of him managing to find his captor without making noise seemed low, and he had no way to know when the man’s back was turned. “I ought to try anyway.” He didn’t like the hint of uncertainty in his assertion and really hoped that no one else heard it.

“If you like.”

Scipio was sure that the other man was laughing at him, so he made himself look defiant.

“You will receive courtesy according to what your behavior merits.” There was still amusement in the voice, but there was also an underlying harshness. “I’m pretty sure you’re worth more than the idiots who hauled you in with them.”

 _He’s not talking about ransom._ Scipio swallowed hard. The Carthaginians weren’t pirates. They had strategy, not just tactics. “A blind man is pretty useless to everyone.”

A hand gripped his shoulder. “It might not be permanent. It might be, and you still could die of it, but having your memory and your wits is a good sign.” The hand went away, and Scipio heard movement. “If you need something, say it. Someone will assist.”

Scipio laughed, but that made his headache worse. “I’m sure that, if I ask for a guide home, someone will oblige.”

“Of course,” the other man replied in a tone that said, ‘absolutely not’ while still acknowledging Scipio’s attempt at a joke. “Start with watered wine. If you keep that down, try something solid.”

Scipio was almost certain that the man had walked away, so he didn’t bother to reply. He simply straightened his back and composed his face into something appropriate for a Roman awaiting death. He tried not to wonder about tomorrow or next week or any time after right now.

At some point, he’d be able to do something. He wasn’t a fool. He couldn’t be suborned.


End file.
